Incompetent
by Gryphon31
Summary: Mycroft deals with many trials being a minor government offical. In the end, there is only one person he trusts to keep him on his feet. Anthea and Mycroft friendship. Updated to include Burning Out as Ch 2.
1. 1: Something Fishy

Now a series of Anthea and Mycroft friendship chapters

Incompetent: Something Fishy

Summery: Mycroft deals with many trials being a minor government offical. From assassination attempts to bad fish there is only one person he trusts to keep him on his feet. Anthea and Mycroft friendship.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock

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The man glared at his partner's back as he fiddled with the lock. _Hurry up_ he silently pleaded, glancing behind him at the street for any signs of trouble.

There was no doubt this was a dangerous assignment; the most dangerous the pair had ever been on. Everything before this had been simple; mainly people whose names vanished as quickly as their eyes glazed over. They had been paid by those with grudges, or those who ran small time illegal businesses; those who were of equal importance of the people they wanted dead- clueless, unimportant nobodies. This hit, however, was political, and their most difficult job yet. For starters, there was a lock on the door between them and the mark.

He felt his usually steady hands tremble slightly against the weight of his concealed weapon, held ready to be drawn. Adrenaline was flooding his system. This was the next step toward a better life. This was their opportunity to start building up a reputation, and possible get more jobs from their unknown, but well-paying employer if all went as planned.

The lock clicked softly, and his partner breathed a small sigh of relief, sliding his tools in his pocket, and reaching for his concealed weapon. In a practiced move, they counted off. 3… 2… 1…

The lock picker twisted the handle gently and the man took the lead, pointing the gun down the hall with both hands, directing it around corners with the ease of someone who had done this many times before; the trembling of his hands ceasing as his military training took over.

As he swept down the hallway he noticed the details around him; expensive paintings, several sculptures, and vases on pedestals. For a minor government official, this guy had dough. He paused as something occurred to him. With this much cash, where was the security? He couldn't hide the feeling that something fishy was going on.

His gun swivelled to the sound of a noise from down the hallway.

"Come on in, boys. I'll be with you in a sec." A female voice rang out from a room up ahead.

Glancing back at his partner who looked as confused as he felt, he made an executive decision, leading the way into an open room. In this room, the style changed, becoming more modern and homey in comparison to the extravagant hallway. Except for a few obviously expensive pieces, including a spoon collection with a few older pieces and a distinguished vase sitting on a glass coffee table, the room appeared ordinary, with soft blue walls and comfortable furniture.

All this he noticed quickly, because it was what he was trained for, but it did not distract him from the woman sitting in the middle of the couch tapping on a blackberry. The vase and coffee table where the only barrier between him and this woman and her phone.

The woman was small, and rather plain. Attractive, he supposed, but not special. She was wearing a plain skirt suit, and didn't even bother looking up as he entered the room.

"Where is Mycroft Holmes?" He asked her, surprised with himself as the words came out his lips. Really, he should just shoot her and move on, but for whatever reason, he felt inclined to stop and ask, making his task even easier if she wanted to save her own life.

His shock increased as she held up one finger, telling him to wait a minute, before going back to her typing. There were two guns trained on her, and she displayed no fear.

"Hey," he commanded, "I have no quarrel with you, but you need to tell me where Mycroft Holmes is right now, or I will kill you."

She sighed, rolling her eyes and rubbing the bridge of her nose in exasperation before making eye contact, "Do you mind? You've already made this longer than it needed to be. If you would stop distracting me, you would already have my full attention."

The man frowned in confusion, but found himself waiting as she finished her message. Her continued nonchalance with the situation was making him uncomfortable. It was as if she knew something, or saw some detail, that he had overlooked in his plans.

"Thank you for your patience," she replied, as though this was an everyday occurrence, "now, how can I help you?"

"Where is Mycroft Holmes?" the man repeated, his uneasiness growing.

"Indisposed at the moment, I'm afraid. I told him not to eat the fish, but in typical Holmes fashion, he refuses to listen to sense, believing his incredible mind would save him from something as simple as bad fish." she rolled her eyes, "sometimes, a situation cannot be thought out of. Sometimes, it just needs to be avoided.

The man looked down, checking to make sure his gun was still in his hands. What was wrong with her? He held the gun, he should be in control, and here she was practically mocking him.

"That's not important," she continued, "What is important is your futures. The way I see it, you have two ways out of here."

"With one body bag or two." His partner interrupted, moving toward her.

"Don't," she commanded sharply, her teasing tone dropping into something much more dangerous, and eyes shining like daggers, "interrupt me." She finished, and his bold partner froze.

"As I was saying, there are two ways out. One, in the back of a police vehicle with all the rights of a citizen, or in the trunk of an inconspicuous government vehicle, where it will be as though you never existed and you will spend the rest of your short, but painfully long, lives wishing you had chosen option one." She finished, smiling sweetly at the pair.

In response the man refocused his aim.

"Option two it is." She replied, and his finger tightened on the trigger.

Mycroft Holmes got out of the shower. He was pale, tired, and really should not have had the fish. He could still envision the warning texts from his PA.

_Don't eat the fish._

_It's a rare delicacy and a good restaurant. You suggested it._

_Rumours of food poisoning from the area checking into local hospitals; possible cause is fish._

_I've never had a problem with fish before, and I certainly don't expect to have one now. I will be fine; I know fish._

_As you wish, sir. I'll have your bathroom prepped for your visit tonight._

She had been right, as usual, and when he ran from the car to the bathroom, he had been greeted by a cold washcloth, a bucket of ice water, throat lasagnes, milk of magnesia, and a pillow next to the loo. Bile had risen in his throat and two hours later he had uncurled himself from the cold tile and turned on the shower, thoroughly miserable.

He now pulled on his robe feeling a bit better until he heard a smash followed by five gunshots. It was unlikely he had thieves. Some form of assassin, then? This was the third attempt in two weeks. Mycroft sighed, fighting back a wave of nausea. Apparently, someone wanted his attention.

He towelled off his hair, running a comb through it. One more gun shot. Groaning, he set the comb down and headed down the hallway. Was his personal attention going to be necessary to deal with this situation?

When he got to his living room, he noticed a few things. First, there was a cold breeze running through the room, but the remnants of a sickly sweet knockout gas still wafted about. Next, there was a sticky note on his coffee table where a vase given to him by a Greek ambassador had sat. Beside that there was a freshly made cup of tea and a bowl of plain fish shaped crackers. Finally, based on the grain of his carpeting, his bullet proof coffee table had been recently turned on its side before being placed back in its position.

Sipping on the tea, he read the note. _Apologies for the vase. It will be replaced by tomorrow. Enjoy the tea. _

In the morning, Mycroft felt much better. He slept in, getting almost seven hours of sleep; a rarity for him on a typical day.

He shuffled down the hallway to find another cup of tea had already been prepared.

"How are you feeling this morning, Mr Holmes?"

"Better. What was the excitement last night?" he asked his PA.

She smirked at him, as only she was allowed to do. "Your job is to protect the country, sir; to run it from the shadows. Mine is no different, though my responsibility is limited to one man. Some excitement is not an unusual occurrence."

Mycroft gave a huff of laughter, but raised his eyebrows in expectation.

"Professional hit men, though amateurs compared to what we are used to. Someone wants you dead, and decided to use them."

"And you took care of it?" Mycroft answered, the question more closely identifying a statement than a question.

"No, sir," she teased, "You hired me because I'm incompetent."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, taking that as a yes. When he had first hired her, she had made an impression in her interview. After that, she had calmed down, doing her job well, but lacking the flair that he had first noticed. While he had appreciated her efficiency and enthusiasm, he was quick to inform her that he had no desire for yet another "yes man." She had taken the words to heart and now, years later, their relationship was the closest thing to a friendship that he had. She was the only person to speak freely around him, in private only, of course, and she did not hesitate to use the privilege, showing none of the fear that most of his other employees demonstrated. Over the years he had even come to enjoy her light teasing and her honest concern. She was, without a doubt, the only person he completely trusted.

"I also got a replacement for the vase," she added.

Mycroft glanced at the table. "Is that an ash tray from Buckingham Palace?"

"I felt it matched the decor," she replied, "besides, it wasn't getting any use there anyways. It can gather dust here instead."

Mycroft's stern face turned to his PA, "Is the royal family aware of the missing item?"

A smirk flickered across her face. "It won't be missed, and I already sent a plan over to the head of security. Maybe next time he will be able to do his job."

Mycroft chuckled. He couldn't say he was surprised. "What happened to the vase?"

"I did you a favour and broke it during a brief violent spell." She answered.

"Favour? That was given to me by an ambassador…"

"And you detested it. You thought it was ugly, and are happy it's broken." She interrupted, the corners of her lips sliding up.

Mycroft smiled, an indication she was right, though such words would never pass his lips. "Violent spell?" he asked returning to an earlier topic.

"Yes. The men who broke in are being debriefed as we speak. There is no indication of who sent them, but we are still looking into it. Don't worry about it, sir. Run the country. I can't have anything happen to you; I'd lose my free parking permit." She grimaced, as though that was the worst detail Mycroft's death would bring.

Mycroft snorted. "Indeed." He checked his phone, "Have the car ready in five minutes. My associate rescheduled our meeting from last night to this morning after the fish did not agree with him."

"He wasn't the only one," She mumbled under her breath.

"Sorry, what was that last bit?" Mycroft replied.

"I said of course, sir. Right away, sir," she answered as she tapped out the message to the driver on her blackberry.

He headed down the hallway to get dressed for the day.

His PA was seated in the car when he arrived, still tapping diligently on her phone. She was most likely doing damage control after the previous night's controlled fiasco, or possibly preparing for the next attempt on his life.

He settled into his seat, and pulled out his phone. World news, important updates and even the local newspaper flashed important. Checking his email, Mycroft smiled at an update from Detective Inspector Lestrade, who reported his brother had solved yet another case. Frowning, Mycroft noted that Sherlock had also lost another flatmate in the process of solving the case. He made a note to search for another flatmate, and hid a smile when PA planted a solid three hour block into his afternoon, rescheduling other meetings, knowing that he would be too distracted with Sherlock's problems to pay adequate attention to the trivial matters in queue for discussion. As they pulled up to the restaurant, a text came in.

_NOT_ _the fish!_

He glanced at his PA. As usual, she gave no indication that she had sent a word, but kept doing what she was doing; fingers flying on the tiny keyboard as she managed his schedule, sent out his orders, and handled threats to him personally, all in his best interest.

_Hmm… too bad. I was thinking fish sounded good this morning._ He replied.

_See if I make you tea the second time around._ Came the response.

He gave no indication of his amusement, but knew that she was aware of it. Nodding goodbye to her, he went to breakfast, periodically checking his phone for the sarcastic comments and useful inferences that made his PA the capable woman she was. She was right, as always. She ran his life magnificently. Hiding in the shadows, fading in the background, she did exactly what he did for his country: she protected him. No matter what the cost, she would defend him against any threat, from trained killers to bad fish. Content with the knowledge that his friend was watching over him, Mycroft was as safe as anyone could ever desire to be.

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_A/N: I hope you enjoyed this, and if you so desire, leave me a reveiw. Tell me if/where you laughed, groaned, or what I could do better. As usual, thanks to the lovely CaringIsNotAnAdvantage for looking over this when she was already stressed._


	2. 2: Burning Out

_So I have decided to add more Anthea and Mycroft friendship pieces to this work, and it should stay complete, as each chapter stands on its own, but I may continue to add to it._

Incompetent: Burning Out

Summary: After Sherlock is found unconscious on the floor with a large bruise on the back of his head, Mycroft blames his lack of security for the problem and begins to take out his rage on his employees. What can his PA do to calm this raging fire?

EDIT: Some spelling mistakes fixed. Thank you for pointing them out CaringIsNotAnAdvantage.

_Disclaimer: I still don't own Sherlock._

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"Which of you incompetent individuals placed the cameras in my brother's flat?" Mycroft asked, voice dangerously monotone. The line of people in front of him stood as still as statues, as though praying not to be the focus of his attention.

"We all did, sir." One spoke from the lines.

"How could you fail so miserably that he found all of them in 48 hours? As a result of your stupidity, he is now in the hospital unconscious with a bruise on the back of his head no indication as to who acted." His voice was bordering a snarl and the men in front of him, who had carried out his orders and were highly aware of what happened to those not in his favor, radiated fear.

"Sir, there is someone here to see you." His PA stood in the doorway. While everyone else was speaking in low, apologetic tones, hers remained neutral, with her natural inflection and the business orientation that her job demanded.

"Reschedule." He barked sharply, turning back to the fools who had failed him.

"Sir, it's important. He is in the back interview room, and could have information about Sherlock." She used the magic word, and he stalked out toward the room in the back with no cameras, no microphones, no one way mirror, and no evidence it officially existed.

His PA tripped into him as she turned to follow, likely just as nervous as the rest of them at their failure, his mind reasoned, because she was not usually clumsy.

She flashed her card in front of the lock, holding the door open for him to enter. As it swung shut, he noticed there was no one in the room but the pair of them.

"I don't know what you are trying to do here, but lying to me will not be tolerated." He glared at his PA, who in turn glared straight back.

"This, Mr Holmes, is an intervention." She answered, "Lying was necessary only to get you here."

"This is pointless. Consider yourself on probation for pulling me away from important business." He turned to leave, reaching for his ID card to unlock the door and let himself out. He frowned as he patted his pocket. It had been there as he left the room. He had felt it press into him when his klutzy PA had run into him.

He spun around, and in his eyes were oceans of anger. "You took my ID."

"Borrowed." She replied calmly, though Mycroft could see fear in her stance.

"Let me out." He commanded.

"Sir, you aren't thinking properly. If you were, you would have noticed the absence of your key card. You would have found it entirely odd that when everyone else is doing their best to stay an umbrella's length away, I ran into you." Her tone did not chide, mock, demean or in any way attempt to antagonize the angry and powerful man. She was incredibly aware that she had locked herself in a box with a raging fire; a man searching for someone to blame and destroy for the harm done to his beloved brother.

"Of course I'm not thinking properly, my brother was just attacked and I am surrounded by incompetent imbeciles who are doing nothing to repair the situation." His hands tightened into fists.

As a man who fought most of his wars with words, he had not often hit people, unless it was self-defense or exigent circumstances, and more frequently used the concealed weapon in his umbrella in those cases. That being said, he could still put force behind his fists and the fact that his controlled demeanor had become angry enough to form fists showed his PA that the fire she was dealing with could not be contained. All she could do was let it burn itself out.

"I'm so sorry for your brother, sir. How exactly did he get hurt?" She asked, though she had reported details herself, but needed to establish his views in order to determine how to handle the situation. How did he see the injury of his brother? She edged around the room to put more distance between her and the inferno.

"He lost consciousness because someone failed to do what they are paid a significant of money to do." His inflection changed as though he was talking to a child who was asking the same question over and over.

His PA nodded in agreement, "So, who didn't do what they were supposed to?" She asked, maintaining her innocent tone.

"If you give me back my card, I will go find out." Mycroft replied.

"No, Mr Holmes. This was a much bigger oversight than any of the people in your main conference room have control over."

"Oh really," Mycroft scoffed, "And how did _you_ of all people figure that out?"

She did not let his words hurt her. He was angry, and though he would likely never say it out loud, he was scared. At this point, he would say whatever he had to in order to leave this room and end this confrontation which would force reason into his perspective. "Sir, the people in your conference room are those who set up security for your brother."

"And his lack of security is the problem." Mycroft cut her off.

She agreed with his word. "Precisely. His lack of security was the problem. His security was down for 14 hours. Those individuals who set up the security sent word that it had gone out, but could do nothing without the pieces and orders to act. So, if the fault is in security, it is someone higher up on your staff." She used the only language he spoke right now, reasoning, to begin to guide him toward a conclusion she hoped would resolve in a different conclusion; one that actually applied.

As he said nothing, indicating his agreement more than anything, his PA continued, "Sir, is there someone on your staff who is responsible for managing your personal life and connections? Someone who you pay to run your life from the shadows, always watching and working to run his life in the background?"

His eyes narrowed in annoyance. She knew he could see where she was going.

"If security is the problem, than that person is the incompetent individual and should be the one who receives your wrath; not those people out there." Her shoulders squared as she prepared for the worst. "I believe I am that individual. Go ahead. I made the security mistake. Do what you think ought to be done."

Mycroft's tense fists relaxed, and with them, so did his PA. "You aren't the problem. It has to be one of them out there. They are the ones who are incompetent and did not do their jobs. They are the ones who didn't do what they ought to."

She watched as began to get himself riled up with misallocated anger, again. She could see from the tenseness of his posture and the furrowing of his brow that this line of reasoning was not going to work for her employer. He was trapped in the loop that he had already established, the loop that connected Sherlock's injuries to the people in the conference room. To get him out of that loop and functioning again, he would need to be pushed and forced to recognize the other emotions at play.

"I'm sorry, sir." She apologized before crossing the room and smacking him across the face, "Use that brain of yours Mycroft Holmes. You believe it was not my fault, yet you must acknowledge that _if_ the fault was _security_ it was mine; not anyone else. What you refuse to consider is that the fault is not your own but the fault of your brilliant but unoccupied brother."

He looked stunned at her forward manor, but she knew this was the only opportunity to save the jobs of her capable team. Her voice dropped, a soft apologetic tone taking its place, "Your brother is a grown man. You can protect him from as much as possible, but he will make his own decisions and you cannot protect him from himself."

The caring brother's mask of anger fell away, revealing a scared man who feared for his brother. "He's in the hospital, and I don't even know what happened. I'm one of the most powerful men in this country, and I couldn't even protect my own brother."

"Even if you were the most powerful man in the world, Sherlock would still find a way to cause harm. That's the way he is." The PA answered, gently rubbing his shoulder, the maximum comfort she could ever provide to her employer and friend.

She watched as the man pulled himself together, wrapping and compartmentalizing his emotions until they were stored away; lost behind walls and years of practice, left to gather dust as she doubted he ever would attempt to open the boxes of pain he concealed.

Her hand dropped to her side and she handed back the ID card of her employer who straightened his tie and smoothed his suit jacket, "You are right, as usual. I should not keep you from your job, which is to find out what happened to my brother. Let me know as soon as there are any developments."

"Sir, there is one development." The PA replied, professional tone reestablished.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Your brother is unconscious with a bruise on the back of his head. There appears to be a correlation, however there is one other detail not widely noticed. There is a needle mark. I believe he injected himself with a compound and didn't anticipate it's strong effects, thus the bruise on the back of his head resulted from his collapse to the ground. This has not been confirmed by a doctor yet, but I know from personal experience that having a needle mark as clean as the one inside his arm is difficult to leave if the drugs are inserted by force." She answered. She had not told him this earlier because it was still unknown, but to ensure his reasoning would stay intact, she told him now.

Mycroft sighed, forced to stay in the bounds of the reasoning already presented to him, "So it's likely he did this to himself."

"Yes, Mr Holmes."

"What am I going to do with him?" Mycroft groaned, "I suppose keeping him in here is out of the question." His use of rare humor told his PA he was mostly back to his normal self, and the rest would take time after the trauma of his brother's unexpected injury.

"That could be advantageous to keeping him safe, sir." She replied, a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

They exited the room that didn't exist, leaving the emotions and pain behind. Mycroft left, control intact once again, and his PA exited with her job and the jobs of her employees. The only indication of the change was a slight puffiness on Mycroft's cheek, left by the woman who did what she had to in order to burn the fire out.

Mycroft did not return to the conference room, but went to his office where he worked on what he should have done that morning.

His phone buzzed and on it was a text.

_Sherlock awake and on his feet, confirmed my diagnosis, and is leaving, likely to do something similar and end up here next week. You can protect him from many things, but not himself._

He tapped out a reply _I can always try._

_And you always will. Just be sure you don't let him destroy you._

Mycroft frowned. She was probably right, as usual. There was a fine line between loving his brother and destroying his life by responding to the whims and risks that his brother took. This was the line that Mycroft clung to, and he could only hope that he could stay on it without falling to his destruction. When it came to his brother, he could just as easily throw himself off the cliff as stand on its border. What was to keep him maintain his stance?

_How?_ He replied.

_I won't let him destroy you._

He felt relief at her answer. She would keep him on that line and pull him away if he tried to throw himself into the brink. It was neither an easy nor safe job, but he was happy he had someone to do it, and could only hope Sherlock would find someone willing to keep him grounded someday.

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_A/N: I hope you enjoyed this. Thank you CaringIsNotAnAdvantage for editing. Review if you want to make my day. :)_


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